


Per Stirpes

by philosoverted



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: ...sort of, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anora is HBIC, F/M, Oneshot, and a fierce mama bear, shortfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7364638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosoverted/pseuds/philosoverted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anora and Alistair have one child, a daughter, set to inherit the throne. A complication muddies plans for her future and leaves her parents walking on unsteady ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Per Stirpes

Two summers following the closure of the Breach, joyous news spread quickly through the Fereldan countryside and beyond, west to Orlais, north to the Free Marches, to Nevarra, to Antiva and Rivain. Ferelden had an heir. Tiny, pink, and perfect, she was the source of much admiration amongst the banns, and some disappointment, but no speculation: she had her mother's hair, her father's amber eyes.

The royal couple's child grew. They opted out of a wetnurse and paid dearly for it; nightly wailing caused them both to lose enough sleep that their handservants began to exclaim over the purple under Anora's eyes, the hints of grey that crept in at Alistair's temples, but stubbornly they kept the child with them, unwilling to trust her to someone else during the night.

Their child grew. Crying gave way to crying and babbling, and then to crying and babbling and _words_. Their vicelike grip on her safety lessened enough that she was moved to a nursery.

Then the giggling started. And with it, Maker, _Anora's_ laughter. It dug underneath Alistair's skin and settled uncomfortably around his heart, a present he'd never asked for, a gift that made him look away whenever she stared at him too long with such an open face. Surely he wouldn't be allowed to love her any more than _this._

Their child grew.

Some nights there was candlelight in her room when they were certain all of them had been blown out. They rotated in new servants who might keep a more watchful eye, and the issue resolved itself.

Their child grew.

They found her, one early autumn morning near the end of Kingsway, prancing around the yard with a flaming branch, and chided her severely for using the braziers to set things other than torches on fire.

And she grew.

From the time she learned to sit a horse, she began to join Alistair on his morning rides. On one such ride in early Harvestmere, shortly after her seventh nameday, Alistair caught up to her horse with no rider, the sound of sobbing somewhere near the trail but out of sight. He vaulted off his horse and crashed through the brush, voice hoarsely calling her name.

Skidding to a stop in a small clearing, he found her smeared with her own blood from prying open a trap, a fox in her lap whose lovely sable coat rose up and down with each heaving breath. A ring of hairless skin wrapped around one of the fox's haunches. An ugly wound. Or what should have been a wound, but wasn't. 

" _Papa._ " Her high, childish voice broke, but her eyes stayed glued to his face, pleading. "I fixed it. I-- I c-couldn't leave her like that. I couldn't just leave her. I _couldn't_..."

Alistair's heart went dead in his chest.

He could tell at a glance she'd done it wrong: the fox's left hindleg couldn't bear weight. It struggled, whining, to heave itself onto its feet, and buckled forward, panting.

A creeping sense of horror filled Alistair's entire body. He tried to say something comforting, but his tongue had turned to lead. _We have to leave. Now._ Alistair didn't hesitate; he hoisted his daughter's light frame up, the fox sliding from her grasping hands and landing on the ground with a pained whine.  _I'm a fool. I'm such a fool --_

He ignored her protests as he jogged back toward the trail. "You can't leave her, you can't, it's cold, she'll _die_ \--"

 _We didn't want to see it. It was always right_ there.

"She's strong and brave like you," Alistair said, hoisting her into the saddle and swinging up behind her. He kissed the back of her head, heart thumping in his chest, desperately afraid someone would come across the creature where it lay by the trap and examine it. That someone might _know._ "Foxes have dens -- she'll go home. It's alright."

He went back at dusk with a knife in hand, but it had already died.

\----

Anora looked out the window, forearm resting against the frame. Her face was out of view; from where Alistair stood it seemed she'd let her forehead drop against her hand.

Alistair blinked back the image of his sobbing daughter curled against Anora's side. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry, mama, I did something bad I'm sorry I knew I wasn't s'posed to I'm so sorry please mama forgive me please._ He'd realized, then, how smart their girl was, to fear what she'd never been taught to fear. _Please don't let them take me away._

His old friend had closed the Circles when she'd been crowned Divine, but prejudices remained. To put it lightly. To say she'd be reviled would be more fitting. They'd have to send her away, for her own good -- somewhere far away and safe where no one would think to look. Alistair's breath hitched. _Like father like daughter, and you're not even a bastard_ , he thought, but he kept the words firmly behind his tongue and away from his wife.

For a long time they both stood silent, Anora leaning into her hand, Alistair staring at the inkwell on his desk like it could actually do some good, his mind racing through decrees and laws, looking for the loophole and ending up in the same desperate place.

Distantly he became aware that Anora had turned from the window, and when she fixed her fierce blue eyes on him he could see that she'd been crying.

When she came toward him he nearly took a step away. He felt _guilty_ , cheeks hot and head throbbing. "Anora. I'm -- I'm _so sorry_  --"

Alistair braced himself for her anger. For her blame. Eyes turned toward the floor, he felt the sting of tears when her hand reached for his and found it.

"Not your fault. Not _her_ fault." She tightened her grip. "After Connor I wondered what I would do. I thought I could be impartial. Told myself I could let the Templars come and take my child, like Isolde did, but... by Andraste, Alistair. I couldn't. I _won't._ " She squeezed his hand, squeezed and squeezed until her slender thin fingers hurt him. He focused on the hurt, biting his own lip until he couldn't see his daughter's small shape finally curled in exhausted sleep, or Anora's drained face as she'd stroked the girl's hair.

Straightening beside him, Anora raised her chin, and he saw the _monarch_ there instead of his wife. "The people have learned to live without the Circles. They will learn to live with a mage for a queen."

Alistair knew then without a shadow of a doubt that he believed her.

**Author's Note:**

> Per Stirpes: "by the branch." Technically a term for splitting inheritance equally. Here I'm using it in a slightly inappropriate way as a sort of metaphor for that inheritance being denied a single child, and also as a nod to the parallels between Alistair's life trajectory from childhood and his daughter's, though hopefully hers would turn out different - and I think it would, because Fiona and Anora are very different women. 
> 
> I always meant to have this one big grandiose mother of a fic to encapsulate all my messy loving feels for these two, but I think all I'm ever gonna get is this short stuff.


End file.
